The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. There's my thumb upon it. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. So far it had been plain sailing, and it had seemed fairly evident to go on: “I find it very difficult to answer your letter.
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